


Destroy me this way

by 8611



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, F/M, Future Fic, Gore, Scars, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:24:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8611/pseuds/8611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment he thinks that she’s said all she wants to say, but then she downs the rest of her drink, wipes a hand across the back of her mouth, and says, “Allison.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destroy me this way

**Author's Note:**

> Sudden Supernatural fic?? To tell you the truth I'm not fully sure where this came from, except for the fact that I love both Dean and Allison. Many thanks to [Daunt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/pseuds/daunt) for letting me bounce ideas off of her and looking shit up for me. <3
> 
> Title's from 'Destroy Everything You Touch' by Ladytron.

A dust storm forces him off the road and into a tiny town.

He pulls his jacket up to cover his nose and mouth and shoulders his way into the bar in town. The sand clatters across the windows, an eerie noise, and his eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim light. 

There are a handful of people inside. Bikers who think they’re riding through the apocalypse, jumped up deer hunters, waify wanna-be demons. That kind of bullshit. 

He sits at the bar, a stool down from a woman with a scar that runs from her ear to the corner of her jaw. It’s a clean line. Probably a knife. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and he sees her shift ever so slightly. 

He orders a beer. He’s planning on being out of here as soon as this storm is gone. 

“You’re a hunter,” the woman says, and he slides his eyes her direction.

“Interesting guess,” he says. 

“Takes one to know one,” she says, and looks away, back down into her drink. 

“What’s your name?” He asks. 

For a moment he thinks that she’s said all she wants to say, but then she downs the rest of her drink, wipes a hand across the back of her mouth, and says, “Allison.”

\---

She’s got a motel room, and they fuck against the door, her back scraping against the emergency evacuation sheet. She leaves half-moon nail marks on his neck and digs the heels of her boots into his ass. 

It’s hard and fast and rough, and it hurts, and Dean doesn’t give a shit. It’s a means to an end, and for once he knows they’re on the same page. 

“So what screwed you up so royally?” He asks, after she comes out of the bathroom with her skirt straightened and her hair done back up. 

“Dying,” she says, and she says it flippantly, like it’s an old enough wound that there’s not much left anymore. 

“Join the club,” he says, grinning.

She shrugs out of her coat, revealing a couple of knives tucked up in high holsters under her arms. It’s a pretty set, as thin and sharp as she is, and she drops them on top of her coat before kicking off her boots. She stands in front of him in just her floral print dress and looks down at him. 

“Who’d you die for?” She asks. 

“Which time?” He asks, and she laughs. 

“I guess you’re just a bit more experienced than me.”

“Just the once for you then?”

“It was enough,” she says, and kicks his knees far enough open to stand between his legs. He brings a hand up to hold her by the hip, and she doesn’t stop him. When she leans over a thin strap of leather slips from the neck of her dress. There’s a silver bullet hanging from it. 

He moves to reach out and touch it, but she kisses him instead, tipping his head back with a hand under his chin. 

\---

He means to leave alone, when the dust storm clears in the early evening, but Allison comes with him. She’s got a quiver and bow on her back, and she slips into the passenger seat of the Impala and dumps the quiver at her feet. 

“Don’t care where I’m going?” He asks. 

“Not much,” she says. 

They pass empty towns and fractured cities, vacant and dark. A lot of middle America has looked like this for a while now. 

“Where are you from?” He asks. 

“A couple of places,” she says. “Outside of Sacramento, mostly recently.” 

“What’s it like there?”

“Pretty intact. We’ve got a wolf pack and a couple of druids.”

“Handy.”

They stop for lunch and she admits she doesn’t know how to use a shotgun, so he teaches her, shooting at scrub brush off the side of the road with blanks. 

When she laughs, her smile wide and brilliant and eyes bright, he thinks he might know what she looked like before she died. 

\---

“You’re an Argent, aren’t you?” 

She stands up, panting, from where she’s trying to pry the top off of the coffin. 

“Been thinking about that a lot?” She asks, grinning. She is covered in dirt, and doesn’t seem to mind too much. 

“Switch,” he says, and jumps down as she hauls herself out of the grave, sitting on the edge and swinging her legs back and forth. “Just curious. Wolf pack in your town, silver bullet on your necklace.”

“I know who you are, by the way,” she says. “Where are the other two Winchesters these days?”

“Cas isn’t -- he’s not -- they’re doing what we’re doing.” The top finally comes off of the coffin with a sickly scream of old nails and the smell of musty air. He tosses the crowbar out and grabs the edge to pull himself out. 

“What, fucking in seedy motels and burning corpses?” 

He nearly falls back into the grave laughing, and she has to help him out. He sits on the ground and catches his breath, shaking his head. 

“The one with less dick involved,” he says as Allison dumps a load of salt and kerosene into the coffin. “They left me behind to finish something, I went to catch up, I found you.”

“Do they care that you’ve been distracted by a girl?”

“Nah,” he says, and drops a match. The sudden heat is always a surprise, no matter how many times he does this. Something in his animal hindbrain. “It’s happened before.” 

“So lost girls at road stops are your type?” 

“Something like that,” he says as they pick up the tools. “What about you? You get off on guys who are dead inside?” 

“Not usually,” she says, and he doesn't miss the way she runs her free hand over her ribs. 

\---

Her body is unmarked by ink, although she’s got scars across her ribs and hips (where her hands stay just a bit too long, sometimes), and a mark over her heart. It’s faded, almost gone, and looked like it might have been a burn. 

She never takes off her necklace though. It hangs between them when she holds him down by a splayed palm on his chest and rides him, her eyes almost closed and her hair falling from her shoulders. 

(She likes pressing a hand over his tattoo when they fuck, like she’s trying to link herself to something real. 

He gets that. They all have their own ways of keeping darkness out. )

“So those are ex-boyfriend scars,” he says one morning when she’s putting her clothes back on. 

“They both had claws,” she says, and her grin is razor sharp. 

“Was the littlest Argent sleeping with weres?” He asks. 

“The littlest Argent was,” she says, and throws his jeans at him. 

\---

He catches wind of a job and she goes with him, and he feels like he should stop her - he has no idea if she can handle herself, they haven’t done much besides salt and burn some bodies - but somehow he never finds the time to stop her. 

It’s an easy enough thing, a handful of demons moving in on a small town turned survivor’s camp. The whole place is salted, but no one can get out for provisions, either. 

Allison comes out shooting, and once Dean sees her put an iron arrow through the head of one of the demons he doesn’t worry about her. 

He takes down four of them with the knife - this hasn’t been hard in a long time - and when he turns to help her she’s got the other three pinned to the ground by arrows. She’s hacking them to pieces, sending the demons fleeing from ruined hosts. 

“You’re hard on the furniture,” he notes, and she stands up, smoothing some of her hair back as she accepts the knife and finishes off the last one with a stab to the chest. 

“Not all of us have magical knives,” she says with a crooked smile. There is blood on her lips. 

He stares at the ruined vessels, the perfectly clean cuts severing arms and heads, and raises his eyebrows. 

“When you died, where’d you go?” He asks. 

“A white room,” she says. “With a tree.”

“Huh.” He toes at a severed head, and it rolls onto its side. “Nice handiwork.”

“You get good at this stuff,” she says, and rips one of her arrows out of a body.

“Don’t I know it.”

\---

After everything happened, some people clung to normalcy. Families insisting that they could get through this. People with blinders on. Towns that managed to keep it together, some like where Allison’s from, where the things that went bump in the night decided to hang on a little bit tighter against the demons. 

Other people gave up. Gave in a little bit too easily. 

“I am a vessel!” The man is standing in the middle of the road, screaming, his head tipped back and his arms outstretched. “I am yours to use!”

Dean stops the car and sighs. When he leans over and grabs the Taurus out of the glove compartment he notices Allison’s already slipped a knife from somewhere - she keeps the suckers everywhere on her person. 

The man does stop his yelling when Dean walks towards him. He looks at Dean with curiosity. 

“Have you finally come to fulfil my wish?” The man asks. Dean knows that he’ll get his wish at some point - there’s a shortage of living people who are unwarded. 

“Nope,” Dean says, and raises the gun. The shot echoes off of the hills on either side of the road, rumbling across the wet grass and muddy earth. 

He drags the body off into the ditch on the side of the road and when he stands up to go back to the car Allison is already there with kerosene and matches. 

“Didn’t want to check if he was warded?” Allison asks as she hands them over. 

“I’d know if he was,” Dean say. He’s gotten good at it, and it’s an easy tell if someone’s begging to be worn like an oven mitt. “And he was going to be demon chow soon, anyway.”

There’s not a ton of kerosene left - he’ll have to find more - but it’s enough to drop a match into. He remembers when they didn’t have to do this, when there were more than enough living, breathing bodies to go around for possession. 

\---

They kill a few demons, manage to do an off-with-his-head routine with a vampire, and hear whispers of a demon leading a wolf pack with his blood. 

They track the demon down and Allison pin-cushions him to a tree in a dead farm field, the dirt rocky and uneven. Dean chains him up and Allison salts him in and the man grins at them, eyes inky. 

“Just give it up,” Allison sighs. She’s tapping one of her feet and swinging a knife from her fingers. 

“Seriously,” Dean says, resting his arm on the guy’s shoulder and twisting the iron knife buried in the guy’s chest a bit further. He makes a strangled sound. “Where’re your wolf buddies?”

“Tell us,” Allison says, almost in his face, her knife hand twitching. 

Somewhere, in the hills to the south of the field, there is a howl. The demon’s head twitches towards the sound, just a small movement, but it’s big enough to give them their answer. Dean pulls the knife from his jacket pocket and stabs the demon through the forehead. 

“Boring conversation anyway,” Dean says, pulling the knife out with a squelch. “Lead on, princess.” 

Allison does, setting a fast pace across the broken ground. The sun is going down, and by the time they hit the tree line they have to pull out flashlights. The beams of light stream through the trees, but when they find a clearing with a bloody rock in the middle, any sign of a pack has vanished. 

“We’ll find them,” Allison says.

“Always do,” he answers. 

\---

Allison goes home after that, after almost a month. Sam and Cas have made contact anyway, so he’s got to go hook back up with them. 

Dean knows when she decides to leave. When she kisses him the night before there’s something sweet in it, something that speaks of summers long past, when everything was whole again. 

They both end up pretending. Dean wonders who she’s thinking of, as she lowers herself into his lap, a breathy moan slipping from her lips. A few people filter through his mind, but he settles on the woman with dark hair who he dreams of sometimes. He knows something happened there - something’s missing - but it’s long past. Not something to dwell on. 

When he asks her the next morning she just shrugs. 

“Not anyone in particular,” she says. “Just of how I used to feel.”

She slips into her boots, those same ones that she’d dug into him just a few weeks ago, and when she stands up she doesn’t tuck her necklace back into her shirt, just lets it hang free.

“We could have been good together, once,” she says. 

“A hell of a long time ago,” he says. 

“Interesting word choice,” she says, and he grins, razor sharp. 

“The next time we die, I’ll keep an eye out for you,” she says at the door, and he kisses her one last time. This time it’s all them, no pretending, rough and open mouthed and hungry for something that neither of them can feel anymore. 

“You do that,” he tells her.


End file.
